


everything else unravels

by louciferish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: A Place to Call Home Zine, Cooking, Domestic, Injury Recovery, M/M, Physical Therapy, Post-Canon, Romantic Friendship, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 01:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18419819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: Yuri had been excited for Otabek to come visit before Rostelecom - to see his apartment, meet Potya, and get to know all the places in the city that Yuri loved most.That was before Yuri had twisted his damn ankle. Resentful of the injury and its impact on his season, Yuri forgot about the invitation entirely... until he found Otabek knocking on his front door. Some people make very good patients and are careful with their health in recovery. Yuri Plisetsky, of course, is not one of those.





	everything else unravels

**Author's Note:**

> This was written late 2018 for A Place to Call Home: a Domestic Otayuri Zine, and was beta'd by pandamilo.
> 
> The zine just ended the last stretch of sales, so I can now share this :)
> 
> A quick note first on... potato salesmen. I checked in with some Russian fans on Discord while writing this to ask if Moscow would have door to door salesmen or Jehovah's Witnesses for the first scene, and was informed that those are not so common, but when people do knock on strangers' doors, they're usually selling potatoes and eggs. I find this entirely delightful and would definitely buy door to door potatoes. But, this is why I mention potato salesmen. It is not something I made up.
> 
> Title is from the song "Hurricane" by The Hush Sound.
> 
> _And since the roof fell in  
>  I'll lean on what matters  
> Caught in the slightest wind  
> Everything else unravels_
> 
> _You're standing in my doorway  
>  Seven cities ago  
> The days are racing  
> But you come back too slow_
> 
> _You're the finest thing that I've done  
>  The hurricane I'll never outrun  
> I could wait around for the dust to still  
> But I don't believe that it ever will_

Yuri ignores the first tentative knock at his door and burrows down further into his blanket cocoon. It’s probably just another fucking potato salesman. God, could Russia _be_ a more cliche version of itself? What kind of backwater country even allows something like door-to-door potato sales to exist?

At the second knock he fishes the remote out from beneath Potya’s cloud of fur and cranks the volume up on the TV. He can barely hear the third knock over the cacophony of Russians yelling at each other in the program. He’s missed the plot, if there was one, but there are two men on the screen with one woman, so he’s assuming it’s some sort of love triangle. 

The yelling is almost soothing in its familiarity. The older man sounds a bit like Yakov, in fact. Yuri’s eyes are starting to drift closed when the door handle jiggles.

“What the fuck?” He hisses and sits up. The movement startles Potya, who springs from his chest and pauses to level a glare in his direction before stalking off, tail held high.

Yuri untangles himself from the blankets and gets up, leveraging his arms against the sofa to stand on his good leg. He hobbles to the front door, cursing under his breath as he balances against the cool white walls of his apartment. He flips the latch and yanks the door open until it hits the end of the chain lock. 

“What the _fuck_?” he repeats, gaping at the familiar leather-clad figure on his porch. “ _Otabek_?”

Otabek shifts his weight and adjusts the duffel bag slumped over his shoulders, then raises a hand in greeting. “Hey,” he says. “Did you get my texts?”

The realization hits Yuri like smacking into the boards after a jump. They’d been Skyping a few weeks back, late at night, and Yuri had rolled over on his bed, propping his face up on his hand as he squinted at the screen, messy and half asleep. _You should come early,_ he’d said. _Before the competition. You can crash here, and I’ll show you the city. Yakov won’t mind._

That had been before Yuri rolled his ankle during off-ice training, before the doctor condemned him to six weeks of rest, and before he’d silenced his phone and entombed it beneath a pile of pillows to end the incessant pity texts from his rink mates.

“Hang on,” he says. He closes the door to disengage the chain. When he reopens it, he has to hop back to hold it wide for Otabek, who enters, dragging the rest of his luggage behind him.

“How’s your ankle?” Otabek asks as he passes into the living room.

“Shitty.” Yuri hobbles after him, then pauses to rest against the wall, watching the surreal scene that is Otabek in _his apartment_. He looks good. His hair’s gotten long at the top and drifts down to brush his ears and his fresh undercut. Yuri can make out the distinct curve of honed muscle even through his dark, fitted jeans. 

Otabek’s face is typically impassive, but Yuri doesn’t miss the way his brows lift when he surveys the living room. There’s a childish impulse that rises up out of nowhere: grab the litter and clutter from the floor. Stuff everything in the closet.

He’s not normally self-conscious about his apartment, but in contrast with Otabek’s clean lines and simple style, Yuri’s place looks like a garbage dump. He can’t look away from the tangled nest of blankets on his sofa, the way his side table is littered with half-empty cups, or the brightly-colored food wrappers scattered across his floor. Adding insult to injury, Potya bats a paw at one of the empty chip bags, pleased by the crackling noise it makes.

“I tried to call you,” Otabek says. “You didn't answer.”

“Yeah.” 

In hindsight, throwing his phone away was a dumb move. Now that Otabek is in his place, looking at him in expectation of an answer, Yuri’s chest tightens. He doesn't want Otabek to know how immature he's been. He looks at the trash littering the floors again. It might be too late for that.

“Just a sec,” Yuri says. He hobbles through the living room, guiding himself on furniture and walls as needed, then down the hall to his bedroom. 

His bed is destroyed. He tore most of the bedding off to use for his blanket nest on the sofa and hasn't been in here since. He paws through the pile of pillows and quilts he left behind until he unearths his dead cell phone, then plugs it in and powers it on.

As soon as his service loads, the phone begins to shake and flash violently in his hand as the notifications pour in. 

There are a lot of missed texts and about a dozen calls. The three most recent calls are Otabek. _Shit_. He pushes his hair back out of his face and opens the texts. 

He scrolls past messages from Yakov, Victor, and Mila immediately. The text from Yuuko makes him pause, but he moves on, pulling up Otabek’s name.

 **One week ago:** I booked the flight. I'll email you the info.

 **The next day:** Just heard about the ankle. Sucks. 

**Two days ago:** Tell me if I shouldn't come. I can find a hotel. 

**This morning:** Boarding my flight. See you soon, I guess. You better not be dead. 

Yuri drops the phone back onto a pile of dirty clothes and cradles his face in his hands. “Dammit,” he whispers to himself. In the other room, the television is still blasting. He can hear the actress sobbing hysterically.

He makes his slow, limping return to the front room, where Otabek still stands waiting with his bags. He doesn't look like he moved at all, but some of the trash has vanished from Yuri’s coffee table.

“You should go,” Yuri blurts out, then flushes. He's not trying to be a brat. He gestures to his injured foot. “There’s no point. I can't show you around Piter like this.”

Otabek’s dark eyes flicker down to his ankle, then back up. “That's okay,” he says. “Sight-seeing is overrated.”

Yuri huffs. He grabs a couple of the empty cups from the table and tries to hobble past Otabek to the kitchen. “I'm still on bed rest, and you'll miss ice time for the whole week before competition.”

“I’ll work it out,” Otabek says. “Don’t worry about that stuff.”

“I’m not worried,” Yuri snaps. He’s not sure what happens next. One minute, he’s making slow progress into the kitchen to dump glasses in the sink. The next, a stabbing pain shoots from his foot up his spine, and he cries out.

He blinks, and when he opens his eyes he’s hanging limp in Otabek’s arms as the cups roll across the water-splattered carpet. Yuri’s face heats as he pulls away, trying to regain his footing on the good leg. Otabek’s fingers tighten against his shoulder blades. 

“You need to be careful,” Otabek says, glancing down at Yuri’s throbbing ankle. “Or you’ll damage yourself permanently. Don’t you have a boot? Crutches?”

“No,” Yuri lies. They’re in the closet. He shoved them in there as quickly as he could once Yakov sent him home. He doesn’t need something to help him walk if he’s not even leaving the house, and the bulk of it all is frustrating. He feels like a lumbering monster.

He finds his footing again but can’t restrain the hiss that escapes his lips when he touches his injured foot on the floor for balance. Otabek’s frown deepens, but he lets go of Yuri, bending to pick up the cups he dropped.

“Do you have anything to take for the pain?” he asks as he walks into the kitchen.

Yuri drops back onto the couch and props his leg back up on the side. “Yeah, but I don’t like to take it because of… you know.” He shrugs, although he knows Otabek can’t see it.

The only reply is the clink of glass on metal, then the rushing sound of water in the next room. After a moment, Otabek reappears. The cup of water in his hand is still dripping from the sink as he holds it out to Yuri. 

“If you don’t want to take too much, I can cut them down for you so the dose isn’t as strong.” He doesn’t meet Yuri’s eyes. “I’ve got an aunt who does that, because of some stuff with my grandfather.”

The tension leeches from Yuri’s shoulders. He really didn’t want to have a conversation about his parents, but he had hoped Otabek might understand anyway. “Okay.”

He lets Otabek know where to find the pills and watches him cut one in half, setting the other half aside for later. Yuri throws it back and settles deeper into the couch cushions.

“Where should I put my luggage?” Otabek says. “I don’t want you to trip.”

“Take my room,” Yuri mumbles. He can hear Otabek saying something, protesting, but it’s fading and distant. Yuri yawns, eyes already fluttering closed as the drug takes hold. “I’m not… done arguing, though,” he says, but he slips into painless sleep.

He wakes to a warm, familiar weight on his chest and blinks the heaviness from his eyes. Potya starts purring like a motorcycle when she feels him stirring beneath her, and he pries one arm from beneath the pile of blankets to scritch at her ears. 

There’s a soft sound of splashing and the snap of a cabinet shutting in the kitchen. He levers himself up on his elbows, disregarding Potya’s offended murrp at losing her perch. “You had better not be cleaning in there,” Yuri calls out.

Otabek sticks his head out the doorway. He’s lost his leather jacket, and his bare, tanned arms are on full display in the plain white t-shirt he had on underneath. “I’m not,” he says, but his hands are damp, the liar. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” Yuri admits. His head still feels wrapped in cotton, and he hates that, but it’s not nearly as bad as it would have been if he’d taken the full dose of medication.

“Good. Are you hungry? We could call for delivery.” Otabek leans against the door frame and crosses his arms. “I can run to the store tomorrow if you want.” 

It’s surprising to see how much he fills the space in the door. Otabek was already broad in the chest compared to Yuri when they met, but he’s filled out more in the past couple years, and it’s highlighted by the angle of his slim hips and the golden light of sunset filtering through his blinds. 

God, this was a mistake. This entire invitation was nothing but impulse and sleep deprivation, and he needs it to end right now. Yuri licks his lips and sits up on the couch, swinging his feet to the floor. “You should go,” he says again.

He’s not prepared for Otabek’s soft laughter at that, or the way his hair falls in his eyes when he shakes his head. “Well, you did warn me that you weren’t done arguing.”

He crosses the room and drops onto the mound of blankets on the couch beside Yuri. “I’ll go if you really want me to,” he says. “But I’d rather stay. It’s… good to see you when we’re not competing for once.”

Damn the man. “You’ll miss out on training time,” Yuri says.

“I called Yakov while you were napping. He’s giving me your time slot. I’ll Skype my coach.” 

“You’ll be stuck here,” Yuri protests. “You won’t get to see any of the city. Isn’t that why you came?”

“No. I came to see you.” Beka shrugs, like saying that is nothing at all, casual. Ugh.

Yuri can do casual. “Whatever,” he says, looking away. “I guess it’s up to you if you want to be a boring old man and just sit around my house all week.”

But when he looks back, Otabek is still sitting on the sofa, arms stretched along the back rest. A small smile pulls at his mouth as he tilts his head back, stretching his neck. “I do,” he says, and Yuri doesn’t know how to follow that. He lets the conversation lapse into silence.

-

Yuri wakes, gasping and sudden. He searches the dark room for a reason, blinking rapidly to clear the fuzz from the edges of his vision, and sees Otabek standing by the dark TV. He’s wearing leggings and has his team jacket on, zipped to the throat. His equipment bag is slung across his body.

“Sorry,” he whispers, setting the remote back on the coffee table. “I thought you’d sleep better if it was off.”

Yuri sits up a little straighter and rubs at his eyes. Through the window, he can still see street lights still burning. “You’re going to the rink already?”

“Yeah, I need to stop and get some stuff on the way,” Otabek says, hoisting his bag a little higher. “Plus, I need extra time in case I get lost.” Yuri’s stomach twists at that. Some shadow of his guilt must show on his face, because Otabek says, “Shit. I won’t get lost. I have a phone.”

Yuri plucks at the soft grey blanket on his lap. Crumbs of food have gathered in the creases and jump when he moves the fabric. “Text me if you do. At least I can help with that.”

Beka nods. There’s a moment that feels like it drags on forever as he seems to wait for something else to happen, and Yuri thinks about saying—what? _Have a nice day?_

Then Beka raises his hand in an awkward little half wave and says, “Well. Get some sleep.”

When the door clicks closed behind him, Yuri lets himself fall back onto the couch. Potya blinks up at him, her eyes reflecting the pre-dawn light from the windows as she yawns. She’s not complaining, so Otabek must have fed her. 

He rolls onto his side and turns the TV back on, certain he won’t be able to rest now. The flickering lights of the commercials turn the backs of his eyelids pink and red. He clutches one of the pillows against his chest as the sharp voices of advertisers soothe him back to sleep. 

-

Yuri watches with satisfaction as another zombie drops to the ground, and he presses the button to reload and finish it off. At first, he thinks the strange noises are coming from the game. He widens the camera view to check behind him, but his character is in the clear. The scraping, bumping noise happens again, and he realizes it’s echoing down the front hallway. Oh. Otabek doesn’t have a key—of course. 

He pauses his video game and limps over to the door, pulling back the chain and releasing the latch. On the other side, Otabek is waiting, burdened with not only his equipment but a cluster of pendulous grocery bags. 

“Thanks,” he says, rustling a bag thick with greens from one arm to the other. “I couldn’t get my hands free to knock.”

“Give me something,” Yuri says, but Otabek just brushes by him and moves into the kitchen, where he starts piling the bags up on the counters and table. “What are you doing?”

“Starting dinner,” Otabek responds simply as he pulls containers out of the bags to stack on the countertop. “I’m starving, aren’t you?”

Yuri is not, mostly because he’s been lying on the sofa all day, killing zombies and snacking whenever he feels like it, but he’s also still growing, so, “I could eat.”

Otabek pulls a package of raw chicken from one of the bags and sets it on the counter beside a growing stack of vegetables. Yuri pushes past him, trying to ignore how small his kitchen suddenly feels with two people filling the space, Otabek’s warmth radiating against his skin even though they aren’t quite touching. 

He finds the cutting board he was looking for in a cabinet, then pulls out a drawer, bumping his hipbone hard as he rustles to find a knife and a peeler.

“What are _you_ doing?” Otabek echoes.

“I’m not going to lay around like some fancy bastard and wait for you to cook for me,” Yuri mutters, swinging his hair to cover his face. “I’m helping.”

He grabs the carrots from the counter, then totes his armful over to the little table in the kitchen to sit while he works. 

It’s weird at first. He hasn’t had the apartment that long, and he’s never been much of a cook. His rink mates had helped him move in—they’d insisted on it just as vehemently as Yakov had demanded he move out, once he and Lilia patched things up. But other than that, he hasn’t had anyone over for more than a few minutes. It’s his own space. It’s personal.

The familiar movement of the peeler skipping along the carrot’s surface brings back memories. When he was still little, his grandpa had been able to pick him up with ease. When they made pirozhki together, he’d pluck Yuri from the floor and swing him up, up overhead as Yuri laughed in delight, and then Grandpa would plop him onto the counter beside the sink and hand him a potato and a peeler, watching closely as Yuri prepared each vegetable with care, holding them up for inspection in his small hands after.

“Are these done?” Beka interrupts his thoughts, pointing to the carrots lying forgotten in a pile by the cutting board.

Yuri feels his cheeks flush, caught in the memory. “I was going to chop them.”

“I can take half.”

Yuri nods, and Otabek gathers up some of the carrots to take back to the counter. Yuri watches him move. He’s wearing a red and black flannel over a grey t-shirt, and although Yuri knows from the loud rumbling of his heater that it must be freezing outside, Otabek looks warm and content. The apartment is still small, but he doesn’t take up too much space. He fits.

Turning his attention back to the table, Yuri asks, “So, how was practice?” 

The sound of chopping stops for a moment, then resumes. “Your rinkmates are loud,” Otabek says finally, and Yuri’s eyes roll back into his skull.

“ _I know._ ” 

They move from complaining about Victor’s critiques to discussing the upcoming season as the food cooks. By the time dinner is ready, Yuri’s stomach is grumbling at the wait. He inhales the scent of fragrant rice and roast chicken as he hovers beside the stove, empty plate held out. 

Yuri’s never actually eaten at his kitchen table, and he’s not about to start now just for Otabek’s sake. They have dinner on the couch, balancing their plates on their knees and swatting Potya away when she gets too close, tempted by the smell of meat. 

After, Beka takes the plates to the kitchen, then nods at the TV, where Yuri’s game is still paused. “Does that have two-player?”

They lose the next couple hours to the game, knees pressed together as they lean toward the TV in concentration, unable to spread out as Potya takes up her own half of the sofa. Yuri doesn’t even realize how much time has passed until Beka turns off his controller and stands, stretching his arms overhead.

“Why don’t you let me stay in here tonight?” he says. “You’ll rest better in the bed, and then I won’t wake you up when I go to the rink tomorrow.”

“No.” Yuri grabs the remote, switching the TV back to cable. “I told you to take the bed. I’m good out here.”

Beka stands uneasy on his toes, watching Yuri, and for a moment it feels like he’s going to suggest something else, some compromise. _We could share the bed_ , Yuri thinks but doesn’t say. Beka doesn’t say it either. 

Instead, he says, “Good night, then,” and Yuri only nods, unable to meet his eyes.

\- 

Yuri doesn’t wake up this time until he hears the door click open. Otabek, already on his way out, doesn’t look back or notice Yuri stirring on the couch. He shoves aside a dull ache that sprouts in his chest as he watches the door close. Whatever. It’s not like Beka’s required to say goodbye to him in the morning.

He flops onto his side, facing the back of the couch, and tries to go back to sleep. He manages to drift off, then snaps awake again and cranes his neck to see the time on the TV. If Otabek is taking the bus or walking, he’ll be at the rink by now.

He rolls onto his back again. When he made that stupid invitation, this was not what he imagined at all. He should be at the rink _with_ Beka, helping him refine his new program. They should be making faces at each other across the ice and poking fun at the way Victor and Yuuri hang on each other during breaks. 

Afterward, he wanted to show Beka the city—not just the touristy crap like the Winter Palace or a stuffy museum, but the parts of the city only locals can find—the clubs, the bars, and the weird little restaurants run by grannies who still have portraits of Stalin hanging in the kitchen.

He did _not_ want to be sidelined by a fucking twisted ankle.

He uses the energy now sparking through his veins to push himself up from the sofa and limp toward the bedroom. Potya is lying on the floor in the hall, but when she sees him coming she runs, shooting into her favorite hiding place beneath the bed.

The room already looks strange, like it no longer belongs entirely to Yuri. The bed is made, everything pulled into place and tucked neatly together, and the cups that normally scatter across the surfaces are gone, probably washed and put away properly in a cupboard for once. 

Otabek’s suitcase is packed and standing against the wall. The only thing Beka’s left out is his flannel shirt from yesterday, discarded to hang on the suitcase handle. 

Yuri picks the shirt up and shrugs it on. The fit is strange—baggy at the shoulders and through his torso. It feels like borrowing his grandfather’s clothes as a boy, the fabric swaddling him in soft warmth, except for where the cuffs of the shirt pull well above his wrists, centimeters of bony arm protruding from the red flannel. 

He rolls the sleeves to his elbows but keeps the shirt on.

His phone is still in the pile of clothes where he buried it. The message alert light flashes at him insistently, and he checks the notifications. It’s mostly harassing texts from Victor and Mila. There’s also a missed call from Yakov, with a voicemail, of course. Yuri rolls his eyes. Yakov can’t get it through his head that no one checks voicemail anymore.

He wanders back into the living room as he hits dial, and Yakov picks up on the first ring.

“Yura,” he snaps. “I’m tempted to tell you to find a new coach, you disrespectful brat. First, you disappear for a week, no text, no call, and then out of nowhere your boy shows up here-”

“He’s not my boy,” Yuri mutters, flopping back onto the couch. 

Yakov clucks in disapproval. “Either way,” he continues. “He is here now, and _now_ you call me back? You still need to rest. I know your ankle is not ready for the ice again yet.”

“That’s not what I’m calling about.”

Silence stretches out along the phone line.

“Otabek is a good skater,” Yakov says. “Very talented. He listens well when I give him advice.”

 _Unlike you_ is implied. 

“Whatever,” Yuri says. 

Yakov’s sigh echoes in the tiny speaker. “What did you call me for, Yura? I have others to get back to.”

Yuri stares up, tracing the bulges and cracks in his textured ceiling. “You said something last week about physical therapy,” he begins. 

-

He’s cursing under his breath by the time he reaches the landing outside his apartment. _Fucking walk-ups. Goddamn crutches._ The heavy plastic boot around his foot may be holding his ankle secure, but it sure as hell doesn’t do him any favors trying to get up stairs. 

He fumbles with his keys a bit before getting the door open. As soon as he’s inside, he lets the crutches clatter onto the floor. He starts to latch the door behind him, then remembers: Otabek will be home soon. 

No, not home. _Back_. Beka will be _back_ soon. Yuri leaves the door unlocked and drags his plastic-encased foot back to the sofa so he can rip the boot off as well. 

The physical therapist Yakov recommended was some Soviet throwback with eyes like a vulture and a short fuse for patients who don’t take her advice. She was brutal, and Yuri is pissed at how much his muscles ache from a few stupid stretches. It’s only been a week since he was on the ice at peak physical condition. Recovery exercises should be easy, right?

After the effort it took to leave, do his exercises, and return, he’s grateful for the soft comfort of his worn couch and the sharp-tongued dramatics of daytime television. He doesn’t fall asleep, but he lets himself relax, his mind wandering without concern or conflict.

Beka returns, his movements quiet and catlike without the barrier of the locked door. Yuri’s not sure how he manages it, weighed down by winter clothes and equipment, but he thinks maybe it has something to do with control. Otabek always seems aware of where his body is at all times, even compared to other athletes. He nods to Yuri as he passes the couch and puts his things away in the bedroom.

When he comes back, he leans on the back of the couch, hands sinking into the headrest cushions until his fingertips are just brushing Yuri’s shoulders. “Should we make dinner again?” he asks. 

“I ate leftovers for lunch,” Yuri says, and Otabek hums in response.

He pauses on his way into the kitchen, looking back at Yuri on the couch, and a strange expression flickers over his features. Yuri almost doesn’t look up from his phone in time to see it, and then it’s gone, and Otabek is in the other room. 

It takes him a minute to realize he’s still wearing the red flannel shirt.

His muscles whine at him when he stands, but he’s determined to help. He shuffles into the kitchen, moving slower than Grandpa in January, when his arthritis hits its peak. He leans against the counter for support, looking for something to do.

The moment Otabek lays eyes on Yuri, he sets his knife down, walking over to loop Yuri’s free arm over his own shoulders, transforming himself into a human crutch. It’s much more comfortable than the crutches he borrowed from the rink. Now that Yuri’s fully grown— _he hopes_ —Otabek’s shoulder feels just right beneath his arm. 

He tries half-heartedly to push Beka away, but Otabek only wraps an arm around his waist, fingers pressing into the soft space beneath his ribs. 

“Come on,” Otabek huffs, tugging him back toward the living room. “You look like you’re about to drop. Let me help you.”

“You don’t have to,” Yuri protests, but Otabek keeps pulling him back to the couch. Yuri finally gives in, allowing himself to be lead. Otabek’s animal should be a bull, not a bear. _An ass, maybe._

“I know I don’t have to,” Otabek says. “I want to. Friends, remember?”

Yuri drops back into the cushions and lets his head loll back, peering up at Otabek through his eyelashes. 

Otabek’s mouth twists in familiar irritation. It throws Yuri right back to that night at the dance club, the night after he debuted with Grand Prix Final gold. _Welcome to the Madness._

“Why can’t you just accept my help?” Otabek pleads, tension bleeding through him. “Why is everything a battle?”

 _The eyes of a soldier_ , Yuri thinks, but it’s not a real answer. “I need to be able to do things myself,” he says instead. “Even if I’m hurt or sick. I can’t count on others to take care of me all the time.”

Beka sighs. He clenches his hands a few times, then begins to relax. “I know that,” he says, his voice calm and patient again. “But right now, I’m here, okay? You can rely on me a little if you need to this week. Afterward, you can go back to being self-sufficient.”

When Yuri doesn’t say anything, he steps forward, looming over the couch. He leans down to brace himself on either side of Yuri’s head, his dark eyes inscrutable as he closes the distance between them. Yuri can feel Otabek’s breath on his cheek, can see where his afternoon stubble is shadowing his upper lip. He smells like sweat and ice and mint.

“I need you to get better,” Otabek says quietly. “So you can kick my ass at World’s.”

A savage grin breaks across Yuri’s face at the words. “I’ll be kicking your ass a lot sooner than that.”

Otabek chuckles and pulls away, leaving behind a chill that seeps into Yuri’s bones. He tugs one of the blankets up onto his lap. When Otabek walks back toward the kitchen, Yuri’s eyes follow his movement. There’s a certain twist to his hips that Yuri didn’t notice before, almost sauntering. 

When he disappears around the corner, Yuri has to force himself to refocus on the television, but his mind is elsewhere. Otabek brings him a plate several minutes later, nods to the program and asks Yuri what it’s called. He has no idea.

The next two days roll by, smooth as satin sheets beneath Yuri’s hands. He wakes in the morning to the sound of Otabek leaving for the rink and rolls off the sofa to get dressed. He meets with the physical therapist, who helps him run through the stretches and work he can do to strengthen his ankle. She tuts over his refusal to use his crutches consistently, but does talk him into wearing a brace, and he finds one he can lace his favorite pair of Docs over.

When Otabek returns, they make dinner together. They talk about Otabek’s jumps and Yuuri’s step sequences, the way Victor can’t stop flashing his ring at every opportunity, and how Yakov looks at Lilia when she comes into the rink—soft, like a boy with his first crush.

They lose themselves in stupid video games and bad television until Otabek excuses himself to get some rest, reminding Yuri that _he_ still has to train tomorrow, and that Yuri shouldn’t get too far off-schedule either. He’ll be back at the rink sooner than he thinks.

Yuri jerks awake, thinking he hears the click of the front door, but when he sits up, the hall is empty. Rose-tinged light seeps through the curtains on his windows, telling him the hour is later than usual. 

He slides off the couch and touches his feet tentatively to the floor. His ankle stretches and reminds him that it’s not well, but there’s no stabbing, no throb. The therapy is helping, or maybe the rest, or the brace. It’s hard to say. 

He takes his time getting to the bathroom, pausing by the half-open bedroom door to peek inside. Otabek is stretched out on his stomach, face turned away from the doorway. The covers are pooled midway down his broad back, and Yuri can hear his deep, sleeping breaths from here. Potya is curled into a tumbleweed of brown and white fur, nestled against the curve of his hip.

Yuri pulls the door to and continues down the hall.

Tomorrow, Otabek leaves for Moscow, along with Mila and Katsudon, to settle in for Rostelecom. For the first time since his ankle took him off the ice, it occurs to Yuri that he could still go, support his rink mates, support Beka. Maybe. Maybe he’ll talk to Yakov.

He’s still considering it when he makes his way to the kitchen. No training today and no therapy either, though he still has a sheet of stretches and exercises to do on his own. The morning rolls out ahead of him, empty of obligation. It would be nice if he could get out and show Otabek some of the city before he leaves, but failing that he should do something to thank Beka for his support.

He puts the kettle on and begins shuffling through the refrigerator, pulling out cheese, eggs, and sausage. On the bottom shelf, there are fresh onions and peppers. Otabek must have gotten them when he went to the store, because Yuri knows perfectly well that his fridge was pathetic the last time he checked.

He retrieves the frying pan and cutting board from the cupboards and sets to work slicing ingredients.

Yuri is just beginning to saute the onions and peppers when he hears the bedroom door whine on its hinges, followed by the tinkling alarm of the bell on Potya’s collar. He looks back over his shoulder to find Beka framed in the doorway, his arms up in a stretch that pulls his bare stomach taut above the waist of his jeans. He groans and drops the stretch, then pulls a t-shirt on. 

“Good morning,” he says as he pads into the kitchen. “Anything I can do to help?”

The electric kettle on the table clicks loudly, and Yuri nods over to it. “Help yourself. And pour me one, too.”

“Sure,” Beka says.

Yuri turns his attention back to the pan to add the eggs and sausages, and for a long moment the only sounds in the room are the sizzle of the skillet and the quiet crunch of Potya enjoying her own breakfast.

When the eggs are fried, Yuri plates up two meals, then scrapes a few egg and meat scraps into Potya’s bowl as a treat. He then sweeps up the plates and brings them over to the table, dropping one in front of Beka, proud as a kitten delivering a dead mouse to the front door.

Beka looks up at him as Yuri leans over the table, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips, and it’s like sliding across the ice, terrifying and exhilarating and so, so simple to bend those last few centimeters. He kisses Beka and tastes that smile, because it was for him anyway, and it tastes like bitter black tea and a delicate bloom of wildflower honey.

When he pulls back, Beka is still smiling. “What was that for?” he asks.

Yuri shrugs, trying to calm the heat in his face as he drops into the other chair. “No reason,” he says, because he doesn’t need one. His tea is already sweetened and the eggs are delicious. They eat slowly and silent, their fingers tangled together on the table between their plates.


End file.
